


Attention

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Death Parade (Anime)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, Loss of Control, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Supernatural Elements, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s hard to be so composed all the time, hard even to manage it for those times Ginti needs to, when he must assume emotionless objectivity and make decisions without letting the storm of his usual passions touch him. It’s nice to give the lead to someone else once in a while, and there’s no one better for it than Decim." Ginti gives up control, and Decim takes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Ginti likes not having control.

It’s not something he  _should_  like. He is an arbiter, after all, it is his duty to be responsible, to be in charge, to be in  _control_  of himself and those around him. But it’s hard to be so composed all the time, hard even to manage it for those times he needs to, when he must assume emotionless objectivity and make decisions without letting the storm of his usual passions touch him.

It’s nice, to give the lead to someone else once in a while, and there’s no one better for it than Decim.

Ginti gave up control as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. He could feel his grasp of the situation slipping through his unresisting fingers as soon as he moved forward without any kind of a mask to hide his face, tumbling entirely free when he leaned over the bar to smile at Decim’s unblinking stare. He put up a fight when Decim’s threads pulled him back, but it was token at best, his own attacks more for show than anything else, and he suspects -- he  _knows_  -- Decim noticed, can see the flicker of awareness if not of any corresponding emotion in the uncanny blue of the other’s uncovered eye.

Maybe Decim is irritated, deep down where no trace of the emotion makes it onto his features. Maybe it’s that he decides to take pity on Ginti, to take away the control the other feels as such a burden. It doesn’t matter. The reason never matters, not really, because in the end Ginti ends up as he is now, his weight hanging from his pulled-taut arms as Decim’s slender fingers trail down the bare skin of his chest. Decim’s hands are inhumanly cool, as they always are, closer to room temperature than to the radiant heat of a living person, but Ginti still shudders at the contact, all the fire in his blood rising hot to the surface like it’s been called by name.

“You were bored.” Decim’s tone allows no room for argument; it’s a statement, not a question. His fingers drag lower, over the clean angle of Ginti’s hip, down over the unsteady shake in his thighs. Ginti can’t stop that tremble of anticipation any more than he can let himself down; he’s well and truly helpless, now, has cast himself entirely on the mercy of a being he isn’t certain knows the meaning of the word.

The thought makes his breath catch faster, makes his heart pound harder in his chest. When he speaks his voice sticks in his throat, drags shaky and desperate as Decim’s touch wanders to his knee, comes back up his thigh along the inside edge. “I have to amuse myself somehow.”

“And you find me amusing.” No condemnation, still, just level consideration. Decim’s hand pulls sideways, the friction of his palm catching over Ginti’s hot-flushed length. Ginti groans, shivers against the contact, but without the traction of the floor under his feet he can’t do much to elicit more sensation than to whimper a wordless plea. Decim ignores it, or at least he doesn’t react; he just keeps staring at Ginti’s face, like he’s reading the reactions there clear as words on a page, as he trails his hand back across the other’s body.

He’s not even using both hands. The other is hanging at his side, limp and relaxed with complete unconcern; Ginti can’t even see any tension in Decim’s fingers, when he can pull his focus away from the other’s face long enough to consider his fingers. But Decim’s other hand is stroking back over him, his palm pressing in harder on a second pass, and this time when Ginti groans at the contact Decim takes pity on him, or perhaps curiosity, and curls his fingers into a steady grip around his cock.

“Fuck,” Ginti blurts, his head tipping back with no conscious thought at all so the word stretches taut in his throat. “Decim,  _fuck_ , move.”

“Is this entertaining?” Decim asks, the question so flat he sounds sincerely interested in the answer instead of sarcastic. He strokes up, once, slow but digging his fingers in so tight Ginti can’t take a breath, can’t pay attention to anything but the friction-heat of Decim’s fingers against him. It makes it worse, that Ginti can’t move forward or away; every sensation feels stronger, tingles up his spine with the anxious force of helplessness, his body shivering with the inability to move even if he wants to.

Decim is thorough in his movements. He lingers over every stroke, slipping his fingers up over the head of Ginti’s cock like he’s looking to press out every last burst of sensation from the other, and when he slides back down it’s slow, as lingering as the upward stroke. He falls into a rhythm immediately, like he’s stepping into the well-worn pattern of some familiar motion, and Ginti’s body reacts in kind, flaring hot to the touch as if in some attempt to compensate for the calm cool of Decim’s expression. Decim’s gaze doesn’t falter, the pale silver of his eyelashes barely move, even as Ginti’s back starts to arch, involuntary tension drawing his spine taut at the same time at it curls his toes and makes fists of his hands. The web supporting him doesn’t shift, offers no slack to the ache in Ginti’s shoulders even when he drags at it, his arms flexing until he pulls himself up a half-inch higher from the effort. When he collects himself for a moment, enough to lift his head and gasp a desperate lungful of air, Decim is watching him, the glow of his eye trained on Ginti like the lens of a camera. His mouth is still relaxed, the soft shape of an unconscious frown settled over his lips, and Ginti is staring at that, his thoughts swimming hazy and disconnected, when Decim’s hand slides up over him, the motion gone slick with the spill of pre-come from Ginti’s cock. His fingers tighten, dig in against the hard flush of Ginti’s skin, and what hazy attention is left to the other man disintegrates. His shoulders jerk against the web tangling at his wrists, his back arches as far as he can manage spread out as he is, and when he comes the rush of satisfied heat in his veins sweeps away his vision along with his attention for a minute. All the tension in his shoulders and along the arch of his spine gives way, leaves him hanging entirely from Decim’s restraints as the leading edge of heat in him trembles itself into languid warmth instead. He can feel the hurt along his arms, the strain of his position promising a dull ache all day tomorrow, but just at the moment he doesn’t care, doesn’t even mind that Decim hasn’t let the threads go yet.

Then he blinks his vision back into focus, and sees the mess he’s made of Decim’s vest, and realizes that they’re not nearly done yet.

Decim’s fingers slide loose of their hold as he looks down at the dark of his uniform. He pauses to wipe his hand clean against the waist of his vest -- Ginti can see the logic of that, at least, when it’s already stained -- before he carefully unfastens the row of buttons down the front. Ginti can’t help the sharp intake of breath he takes as Decim strips the cloth off -- it’s so rare to see the other in anything but his full uniform that the sight itself brings a corresponding shiver in Ginti’s blood.

“You’re as uncontrolled as ever,” Decim observes, tossing the vest over the edge of the bar before he circles around behind the other. Ginti watches as long as he can, partially to see where Decim is going and mostly to see the shift of shoulders under the other’s pale shirt, the way the loss of the vest makes his motions somehow softer, more fluid until they nearly approximate the humanity they both see on a daily basis.

Then Decim moves in behind him -- stepping around the web, or through it, Ginti’s not sure -- and his chill fingers land at the other’s hip, and any pretense of humanity evaporates on contact. Ginti tries to turn his head, a futile effort to catch a glimpse of Decim’s face, as if there is ever anything to read there, but he can’t see anything around the wall formed by his bound shoulder. Fingers twist in against the short ponytail of his hair, drag his head back to face forward and hold him there. The hand at his hip pulls away, gives way to the faint slick of lips on skin; Ginti is sure he wouldn’t be able to hear it at all, were he not so close to Decim. But he is, he’s within inches of the other’s body, and so he has a moment of shuddering anticipation before lukewarm fingers brush against the inside of his thigh.

“You are always so easily bored,” Decim says, like a judgment, like he’s not talking to Ginti at all. His fingers feel their way to the other man’s entrance, curl to slide just inside him with the assistance of Decim’s saliva slicking the skin. Ginti groans at the stretch, unsure if he’s voicing protest or encouragement, and Decim pauses for a moment as the threads draw Ginti a little tighter, spread his legs a little wider. “And you always come to me for your amusement.”

“Don’t give me that,” Ginti manages as Decim’s fingers push in deeper, shift slightly to push him wider. The ache of the intrusion feels like the heat Decim’s own skin lacks, lights Ginti up from the inside until he can feel the tingle of interest rising far off in his blood. “Acting like you’re not enjoying yourself too.”

“Do you not enjoy this?” Decim asks, that same flat almost-sarcasm. His fingers slip in deeper, press in against Ginti’s inner walls, and Ginti jerks involuntarily, the burst of sensation too much to even consider resisting.

“That’s not what I said,” he protests. There’s more he wants to say -- it’s always fun to draw words up out of Decim’s throat, to get the low rumble of the other’s voice purring against his skin -- but Decim is drawing his hand back, sliding up and in a little harder on the second thrust, and Ginti’s words die under the flood of friction in his body. He can feel the burn out in his fingertips, shaking all the way down through his legs like it’s drawing on every nerve ending in his body, and his spent cock is beginning to stir again, flushing half-hard in obedient response to the pressure of Decim’s fingers as it always does.

Ginti gives up on trying to speak, then. His throat tightens on sound -- breathless gasps, mostly, half-formed moans that catch into silence when Decim twists his hand to dig his fingers in deeper. His arms are actively aching, the tension thrumming down his spine and up into the back of his neck like it’s spreading out into his body, but he’s fully hard now without being touched, too, the lingering sticky of come against his length going slick as he shudders with another pulse of hot pre-come. Decim’s hand is still steady at his hair, holding Ginti’s head in place as his fingers stretch the other open and hot with anticipation, until when he finally slides free Ginti can feel the tension of expectation draw his breathing tight in his chest.

The hand at his hair falls away; for a moment there’s no contact at all, aside from the cold press of Decim’s threads against Ginti’s arms and legs. Ginti can feel himself shaking, can’t stop the motion any more than he can let himself down, and he can’t distinguish the separate sounds of Decim moving behind him but he knows completely what is happening.

“Let me see you,” he says, coherency coming back to him long enough to give him the shape of a plea. He cranes his neck, angling for the view he can’t get. “Let me see you, Decim.”

The hand comes back against his skin. This time it settles at the back of his neck, Decim’s fingers curling into a hold against Ginti without restraining the mobility of his neck at all.

“That isn’t necessary,” he says, cool and level and so close Ginti can feel Decim’s breath on his ear, and then he’s thrusting up and into the other man.

Ginti’s head drops back, the conscious effort of supporting his neck giving way to the stretch of Decim filling him. He’s making a sound, some gasping noise that he had intended to be words before conscious thought dissolved, and Decim is reaching around his hip, the soft of his shirt brushing Ginti’s hip as he fits his fingers back into a hold on the other’s hard length.

He doesn’t speak. It’s probably for the best -- Ginti is in no state to listen to coherency, after all. There’s just friction, Decim sliding up and into him and tightening his hold as he sighs against the back of Ginti’s neck. There’s a moment of slack, the threads at Ginti’s arms falling loose for a breath, and Ginti doesn’t have time for more than a moment of panic before he drops a half-inch, the web catching his weight just as he slides the rest of the way onto Decim’s cock. He’s fairly sure that was deliberate, the closest thing to teasing Decim ever does, but he can’t put words to the suspicion; all he can manage is a groan, sensation tearing through his throat and flushing his cock harder still under Decim’s fingers. There’s a huff of air, something that might be the outline of a smile at his shoulder, and then Decim leans in, his shoulder coming under Ginti’s head to catch the weight as he begins to move in truth.

The rhythm of his hips is as even as the stroke of his fingers. If Ginti didn’t know better, he would think Decim was feeling nothing at all for how perfectly even his motions stay in spite of Ginti shuddering hotter and more desperate with every thrust. There’s only the faint cool of breath at Ginti’s skin, the gentle friction of a sleeve against his hip, to say that it is in fact Decim pressed in against him, that it is the other man stretching him open with every motion.

Ginti can’t catch his breath. Decim is still calm, his breathing level and steady, but Ginti’s heart is racing faster and faster, his eyes starting to burn from staring blind and unseeing at the ceiling. When he tips his head he sees white, the fall of Decim’s hair obscuring his features, and he can’t lift his head again, just gasps hard enough that his breathing ruffles the curtain of silver in front of the other’s expression. Decim is stroking up over him, the same unhurried rhythm he used when they started, and Ginti can feel tension building under his skin again, tightening along his spine until he’s arching involuntarily away from contact with the soft of Decim’s shirt.

He doesn’t need to offer a warning. There is no question that Decim knows, that Decim can feel the heat building in his veins and drawing taut all along his body. But it’s not for Decim that Ginti speaks, not warning as much as statement when he gasps, “Decim, Decim, I’m--” as the ache through him stretches taut and thrumming with anticipation.

And Decim tips his head, turns so Ginti can see the glow of his eye, can see the tiny movement of the other’s pupil dilating black for a moment. Ginti gasps air, so close he’s stealing it directly from Decim’s lips, and when Decim’s fingers slide he convulses against the support of the other’s body, pleasure pouring out into him until he feels radiant, flushed and hot as if his blood is turning to steam in his veins. His eyes go out-of-focus, vision falling to second-place priority, and he doesn’t see Decim’s face when he hears his breath catch for a moment and feels the heat of the other coming into him.

Decim lets Ginti gasp against his mouth for a few minutes, maintains the support of the thread to keep the other suspended. Even when he slides out and pulls away he eases the tension in the supports off slowly, lets them lower Ginti to the ground gently enough that the other could get his feet under him, if his legs would support him. As it is the slack comes slow enough that Ginti can fold to the floor with some measure of grace, rather than the boneless collapse he would have had otherwise.

He lacks even the energy to be self-conscious, once the threads have released him and left him slumped sticky and overheated and exhausted on the floor. Decim drops to a knee over him, still looking irrationally pulled-together under the circumstances, reaches out to touch a lock of Ginti’s hair like he’s considering the texture.

He’s looking at the color of the strands, his attention entirely focused, when Ginti grins and lifts a hand to bump Decim’s shirt, still uncovered by the abandoned vest.

“It’s not necessary,” he says, his voice rough and weighted with heat. “It’s fun.”

He isn’t sure Decim understands what he means. But the words pull that blue glow back to his face, draw all Decim’s attention back to him for a moment, and really, that’s all Ginti ever wants.


End file.
